Videre in Somnis
by Nolaquen265
Summary: There is a moment betwixt and between the moments of waking and sleeping that is…ineffable. A timeless singularity, an empty ocean, an airless breath, from which a silent voice calls out, saying…
1. Dormire

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon or any other form of published fiction.

XxXxX

_Our revels now are ended. These our actors, / As I foretold you, were all spirits, and / Are melted into air, into thin air: / And like the baseless fabric of this vision, / The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces, / The solemn temples, the great globe itself, / Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, / And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, / Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff / As dreams are made on; and our little life / Is rounded with sleep._

—_The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1, 148-158. William Shakespeare._

There is a moment betwixt and between the moments of waking and sleeping that is…ineffable. A timeless singularity, an empty ocean, an airless breath, from which a silent voice calls out, saying…

…

…but I can never remember that part.

The overwhelming depth of it is there, I know. The perfect clarity of perception. The supernal purpose.

But the very center of that infinite plane eludes me in memory.

…

Well, the moment's passed now. Alas, how little I knew thee…

xxxxx

Even now, I can't decide if bridging that chasm of consciousness is a step forward or a step back—an escape from the abyss or a retreat from Mimir's well. Still, there's nothing to be done about it now, so I move on with just a tinge of regret.

It's with an intentionally deep breath that I rouse myself from submerged awareness. It settles my mind and leaves it peaceful for a time: just long enough to get a grip on the world and pull myself up by it.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I dangle my feet idly before hopping down. Upon landing without a noise, I strike a fancifully thoughtful pose; yes, a gray hoodie and dark jeans will suit my whims.

It takes only a moment to imagine the proper fit and texture. Draping myself in these thoughts, the garments suddenly _are_. The transition between sleeping- and street-clothes is seamless, nigh instantaneous. While nodding in satisfaction, I can't help but glance over my shoulder.

As ever, I sort of regret it. Seeing myself still slumbering in bed—pajamas, mussed hair, closed eyes and all—continues to be disconcerting, despite the growing frequency with which this happens.

The sight also threatens to drag my lucidity back to its usual residence. That is, somewhere actually inside my physical head.

Turning away and walking to the window makes everything much easier. The lights streaming in from the city provide a measure of focus, as well, and I grin. Taking a moment to snap the world into a crisp focus, I savor the brilliant and surreal flood of color and scent that my senses obediently provide. Reveling in it all—that richness and vibrancy of reality readily embracing me as I reach out to it—I arrive at a simple resolution.

It's a fine night to walk the waking world through dreams.

On a whim, I _will_ myself away in a curtain of beady light. Being but a dream, I'm the only one to see this showy display as my form coalesces on the sidewalk downtown, but that's immaterial to the matter at hand.

Hm. A pun. Well, I could sink lower.

In any case, that _is_ what you get with such a gift as this. An inability to stay in touch—literally so—with these so solid bodies. Forever a roaming shade, a wanderer, a seafarer among the schools of pedestrians dressed in suits and skirts and jeans.

Personally, I somewhat enjoy this aspect of dreamwalking, to coin a phrase. Escaping the daytime's constant jostling and jockeying is worth it all on its own.

But there's still so much more to it than merely that…

Catching meaningless snatches of conversations from every side, I let my eyes drift from triviality to spectacle. It being Tokyo, there's plenty of each in a single glance. For efficiency's sake—and, I'll admit, just for kicks—I push my vision_ back_, and view the world from above and behind. For a while, I weave amongst the clustered masses of people, trying to keep track of my brown hair bobbing in and out of the lively crowd. It's another meta-experience, but the third-person perspective is strangely more comfortable, and even entertaining, than glimpsing my insensate material body at home.

Confusing? Incredible? Perhaps. Welcome to my life, waking or sleeping.

The whimsical adjustment to my sight pays off, though. At one point, over my own shoulder and off to the side, I spy an advertisement for a new series of cards. Hm. Something to look into tomorrow when I walk in the flesh…

Eventually letting my senses drift back into their proper place, I wander for a little while longer, enjoying the motion and the nightlife. They tickle my fancy: the overflowing karaoke bars, the flashing television screens hanging above the street, and the hundreds of self-absorbed city-dwellers packing the sidewalks. To be sure, there's a certain amusement to be had in watching the world breathe and sigh when you're on the other side of the veil.

But when at last the people all start to look vaguely the same, and I lose interest in the hustle and bustle, I lift a foot…and set it down again in the park.

Some say that you can't smell in a dream. Well, they're wrong. Perhaps my experiences are the exception to the rule, for obvious reasons, but the park is no less wondrous to me now. Although I'm little more than a ghost in the real world, the flowers here remain fragrant and the air hangs heavy with spring rainclouds. The city air taints the heady mixture, but I'm used to that. Living in Tokyo all my life is a blessing as mixed as the scent.

In any case, the park is still one of my favorite places to visit in the middle of the night. Where there are lampposts, the warm glow casts a golden haze in the air. Where the light doesn't touch, the trees rustle and sway soothingly in the breeze.

I toy with my perceptions, finding the happiest medium between impossible clarity of vision and familiar limitations. When I can just trace the outline of a leaf a stone's throw away in what would be pitch-blackness to my waking eyes, I cease fiddling. Transcending the body is fun and all, but it wouldn't do to indulge _too_ much; after all, I do have a life to live outside the sleeping hours. I already catch myself daydreaming about this on a regular basis.

No need to push back the point of diminishing returns.

I roam. Meandering without purpose, drinking in the setting. Stepping from gentle shadow to pool of light, and back again. It's a poetic motion, and so natural even in this ethereal form. I ponder that idly as I come to the foot of a hill.

…well, philosophy aside, it's time for another kind of step.

One small step for me, one giant leap for dreamers everywhere. As per usual.

Even after bounding up the stairs two at a time, I can't help but pause for an instant at the door to that old concrete hut. It's just instinct, though, and passing through the iron bars like a breath of wind is effortless when I wish it.

Now, by no means is it necessary for me to leave this world via the fledgling Gate. Really, I'm not using it at all. But, it remains a comfort to me that this foundation of a bridge is here at all; and maybe (oh, I hope) choosing this place as a point of embarkation will strengthen it—make it grow faster.

Bracing myself, placing my mind in the proper state, I crawl into the wavering light.

I can almost imagine that it tickles.

xxxxx

It's all about intent. I haven't a clue where I would appear were it my physical body skipping across dimensions, but my dream-self arrives exactly where it needs to be.

Unhappily, it seems that I'm still bound by that coy mistress, Time. Coupled with that is the rarity of these extraordinary expeditions in the bright, bustling, and distracting day. For these reasons, it should come as no surprise that, as good as it is to catch a glimpse of distant and dearly beloved friends on a regular basis—to have that confirmation of their health and safety—the result is not the kind of reunion I used to expect.

So here I am again, tasting that bittersweet morsel, silently watching a pile of Digimon sprawled across some cave as they snore to high heaven.

Unheard and unseen. Untouchable and unmemorable. Less than a whisper on the wind. That's me: just a dream passing in the night.

The real loneliness of this wonder usually hits about now.

Still.

It's a far-cry from personal contact, for sure. And it's nigh-impossible to tell how they're really getting along…

…but I guess there's nothing legitimate to complain about.

It's more than I could have hoped for beyond an actual homecoming.

And so I walk in their midst, studying their expressions as they slumber. They look happy enough; they _are_ still together, after all, so they have something concrete to hang onto. Their accommodations tonight—a dimly-lit grotto above a dense forest—are less than homey, but such is the semi-nomadic life in this world. Or as near as I can figure it, given my observations.

In any case, I spy a few faint smiles surfacing from the depths of my friends' own dreams. It's encouraging, seeing Terriermon's smirk and MarineAngemon's innocent joy, even obscured by a blanket of sleep.

Guardromon, off to the side, stands as still as stone, like an armored sentry. Even powered down for the night, he strikes an imposing figure. I miss the hilarity of him in action, though; the memory of it doesn't resonate without the grinding of gears and hissing of pistons.

But I have to say, the sight of Calumon and Lopmon snuggled up on either side of Cyberdramon makes the moment. You'd never take the big guy as a willing pillow if he had the awareness to snarl at you for even thinking it.

By the smoldering embers in the center of the cave is Impmon. I can only guess that he was tending their fire most of the night, and fell asleep sitting over it. He looks…dutiful.

And content, too, if I read his composed face aright. That's good.

My eyes slide from the soft red glow of their makeshift hearth to the mouth of the den. As expected, there's the barest sheen of golden fur in the shadows. I usually catch Renamon standing vigil, but rarely giving a sign of whether she sleeps or merely waits. For courtesy's sake—I'm a riot, yes?—I amble over to say a vain hello.

Unexpectedly, as I stop nearby, she cracks one startlingly blue eye. As I blink, gazing into that serene pool of color, a dim awareness fills the space between us. And, although she's staring right through me, the kitsune's neutral expression softens.

With what _might_ be the hint of a nod, she relaxes and slips back into whatever meditative state I first found her in.

…incidents like this really make me question what exactly it is that I'm doing, and how I'm doing it. Because the weirdness factor always jumps when I least expect it.

But this in particular reminds me of a rainy night, once upon a time and a world away…

It's fitting, then, that I turn to my best friend.

He's curled up peacefully in a pile of dry leaves, snoring more gently than I expected. No matter the occasion, my breath always catches at the sight, and it's just a few moments until my eyes begin to prickle. I don't think anyone can blame me: Guilmon, my partner and closest companion, within arm's length…and just out of reach.

If only. If only there were more to it than just this phantasmal tease.

For old time's sake, I pass my hand over his muzzle. Admittedly, there's a shade of a hope in the motion…

He sniffs, nostrils flaring by a fraction. Ears twitching, he rumbles deep in his throat as his eyes flitter beneath their lids. The tip of his tail lightly slaps the ground, sending tremors through his muscles.

And he settles back down again, smiling drowsily.

Disappointment wars with delight for an indeterminable spell, but the latter eventually wins out. When it does, I can't hold back a small grin of my own. After all, I'm a patient guy. I can take this in small steps.

Whatever _this_ may be.

Well.

The sandman's done his duty here.

And so have I. Nothing else left to it, I suppose.

I leave the way I came, but taking special care to shower glimmering particles of light around myself and my slumbering friend as I fade away. A silly flourish, but it's the little things in life, right?

I can almost imagine that it makes Guilmon sneeze.

xxxxx

It's in that gap between worlds that I pause.

Where it's silent. Where it's dark. Where I allow my own thoughts to fade away and leave only naked perception. Reception. Inception.

How like that moment betwixt and between moments.

Without a concrete existence clouding my sight—without matter or data _bellowing_ at me through all my oh-so-sharp senses—in the quiescent void…

A wall? A gate? A boundary?

Lying over and under and through all I've ever known…this secret frontier?

How could I have never realized this was here?

And yet.

I feel that I know it intimately. As though I cross it every night. As though I should be on the other side even now.

…

Well, what's life without adventure, anyway?

Down the rabbit's hole, Alice. To Wonderland, we go…

XxXxX

A/N: This peculiar little story's been tumbling around in my head for a while. Although it could probably be left as a one-shot with an irritating turn at the end, I do plan to finish it at some point, but no guarantee as to the date…nor the manner in which you may expect. Some of you may see what's going on soon after that point, and better appreciate it. If not, then I hope it will suffice by its own merit, both now and then. We'll see.

Thoughts and comments, as ever, go with the review button.


	2. Somniare

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon or any other form of published literature.

XxXxX

Takato's first step across the void's border into new territory felt surprisingly solid—almost as though he had truly and physically entered another realm. An odd sensation, he thought to himself, given his insubstantial form.

Yet, this fleeting impression soon faded into mute astonishment as his mind gradually caught up his feet and his eyes.

"…what."

He stood in a peaceful glade, at the center of a verdant, if vertically challenged, forest. Or, perhaps, he ought to call it a garden—he simply couldn't decide. The surrounding growth, tangled in rows and uniform in outline, appeared both naturally wild and intentionally well-ordered at once: a pleasing sight in its curious ambiguity, to be sure. The trees' deep, dappled shadows, cast by a strangely pale light shining through dusky clouds above, flitted over the grass in a gentle tide.

But this pleasantness merely set the backdrop for a stage of peculiarities.

Wherever Takato turned, the sights beyond the glade's edge and through the slim tree trunks somehow _changed_, as though elements of various landscapes had been lovingly trimmed, and then carelessly thrown together in a melting pot before their random placement hither and thither. Outside the clearing, evergreens and palm trees grew in small groves on either side of a ten-story tall volcano which puffed out smoke rings; cerulean waves crashed against cliffs set at the base of a giant redwood not a hundred feet from where Takato stood; on the opposite side, a canyon filled with snow groaned as a small avalanche thundered down its length. And every time the boy turned, he discovered a new direction to stare off into without finding a familiar landmark. There seemed to be an infinite number of points on the compass rose, and the boy found himself maddeningly unable to turn completely around and face the same way he began in.

And yet…

It wasn't just the ever-changing scenery and impossible space; it was not merely the dark-yet-bright sky, nor the gem-studded road suddenly laid out beneath his feet, nor the shimmering ether rising up about him; nor was it even the saturation of pure _Color_ in everything he saw (grass and trees and water and clouds and so much more) that rocked his world. No—it was the simple fact that he _knew _this place.

Somehow, in all the ways that mattered, this felt so _familiar_. So natural and comfortable in his very core that it took his breath away. Behind the alien landscape and beyond the mix of wonders, there lurked a sense of belonging that brought a surprised smile to Takato's face.

Were he to describe this peculiar intuition, the boy would recall the experience of entering a funhouse and catching sight of his true reflection in the midst of myriad distortions and alien geometries.

When a trio of bright, warbling birds suddenly passed overhead, Takato blinked and shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs. As the first overwhelming wave of awe faded, the bizarreness of his surroundings again drew his attention.

Scratching his neck bemusedly, the boy said aloud, "I guess I really _should_ be expecting a white rabbit at this point." His eyes flicked back and forth expectantly, as though his words might summon up a guide or, at the least, some answers.

And although no fluffy creature jumped into sight, Takato felt a whispering prompt from the back of his mind. Following the urge, he looked over the tops of the grove…

…and discovered the Castle sitting atop the mountain.

If the scattered landscape had invoked a sense of wonder, then this vast and somehow gloomy citadel looming above the horizon nearly brought Takato to his knees. Eyes wide with an amazement he could not justify simply on account of the Escher-like architecture or the grand towers piercing the clouds, he stared silently for what later felt like hours. More so even than the land, the Castle (he could not help but place a capital letter there in his mind) shifted constantly as his vision moved across it; as though the fortress were blooming in every instant, new halls and walls and open staircases spiraling into heaven appeared wherever the dazed boy looked.

It soon came to his attention that, regardless of which direction he turned, the castle remained firmly before him in the distance. Likewise, the golden road at his feet—cobbled with precious stones the size of robins' eggs, and which he had priorly paid scant attention to—led ever true through the trees and across the inexplicable earth, towards the far-off bastion.

With this development, and a rising curiosity which Takato had a spotted history of suppressing, it only took a few moments for the boy to make a decision. Setting off with his hands in his pockets, slowly growing more at ease in this strange world, he said dryly to himself, "It's not like I can go anywhere but forwards anyway."

Indeed, although the road meandered between geographical oddities, mossy ruins, and curious knick-knacks abandoned here and there on the ground (a bicycle, a plow, a tea-table set with dolls, a banner flittering in the wind—), the way felt straight. Even the soft-yet-unyielding texture of the landscape seemed to invite Takato's footsteps, like a sheet of tender velvet laid across creamy marble, giving a spring to his firm steps. Marveling at this world of contradictions and curiosities, the boy walked on, his gaze touching everything in sight with an increasing wonder.

In the time it took for him to traverse that fantastic place, over fields and mountains, marshes and tundra, and desert and prairies, Takato found that his thoughts simply wandered away. Where before had been bewildered questions and half-hearted analysis, now his mind was filled with warm acceptance for the reality in which he explored. There was in this, it seemed, much the same sense that he had felt in that digital dimension during his early adventures: taking things as they came, and enjoying the moment.

Yet, the boy could not help but perceive a growing weight as he proceeded on. The growing shadow of the Castle before him settled upon the ground like a winter comforter, and Takato slowly became aware of the sensation of walking downhill—as though the magnificent yet overwhelming structure were pressing on the world and pulling everything towards it on a gentle slope.

How many minutes or hours passed by on Takato's tireless trek, he did not know. But at last, as he approached a set of gates towering twenty feet above him, the boy's perception again grew sharper. No longer befuddled by a random meld of biomes and miscellaneous relics left along the path, he could see the looming towers and spires cutting what seemed to be the entire sky into precise planes of razor-edges and clear windows. With his thoughts now distinct and straining to reach his goal, he placed a hand upon one massive gate—

_(horn and ivory and bone and woven iron)_

—and it effortlessly swung inwards with a single push, silent but for a whisper of moving air.

Blinking at this, Takato hesitated for a moment. Still, he was becoming inured to such oddities, and it took only another step to carry him past the vast gates.

Finding himself at the base of a hill, where the gemmed road continued up to a set of equally massive wooden doors at the Castle's entrance, Takato moved on—but more cautiously now, for he suddenly felt himself stepping into…something ancient.

And watchful.

Swallowing the lump that threatened to rise up in his throat, the boy pushed on stalwartly. After such a journey, after all, how could he stop now?

And when Takato had ascended the hill, had reached the path's end, he began to understand something about this place.

At the Castle's doors stood a man—or something like a man. Tall, pale of skin but with hair dark as night, and garbed in robes of midnight blue, a being waited motionlessly for Takato's arrival. At first he seemed to have no eyes, for they were dark as pits in the deepest of hidden caverns. Yet as the boy neared this figure, he saw in their depths two points of distant starlight peering back at him: cool and clear as a mountain lake beneath the rising moon, and as piercing as Artemis' arrows. His gaze seared like ice on bare flesh, but Takato could not bring himself to feel fear. Rather, a quiet awe suffused the boy, and he approached slowly, trying not to gape.

After an instant of eternity, Takato, fidgeting nervously, stood before the figure, who surveyed the boy impassively with those unreadable eyes. The set of his mouth and brow likewise revealed nothing, and his posture invoked only images of classical statues from the Western world: austere, full of authority and power, but arrayed in simple folds of cloth and an air of intense observation.

Silence hung in the air for some moments as Takato tried in vain to find the right questions and words, until the stranger himself spoke.

"You are here very strongly."

The voice was even, but filled with an immeasurable and ageless depth, and calm as a still winter evening in a forest blanketed with snow. It defied true description, extending beyond the sense of hearing and entering into an intuitive world of pure _meaning_ and _being_. Takato could only marvel at the enthralling sound as his mind slowly came to grips with the words it had formed.

"I…I'm sorry?"

An apology or a question. Takato didn't know even as the words left his mouth.

Still, the figure seemed to understand.

"You walk in this realm as though it were the one you knew." A slight gesture which seemed to encompass all the world accompanied this explanation. "Most visitors here find themselves adrift in currents beyond their grasp, and so they wander without clear intent or direction. Indeed, they only ever recall fragments of their time here afterward." The robed figure regarded Takato with a measure of composed interest. "But your steps are firm. Your presence is rooted in awareness, and for you this place is as solid in essence as your own world."

"I guess so." Takato's gaze shifted downward. "To be honest, I don't even know what I'm doing, or where I am. I mean, for a while now I've been able to walk around the real and Digital worlds like a ghost, but it feels different here somehow." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I don't suppose that makes much sense…"

"On the contrary. I will admit, however, it has been some time since a Dreamer has trod these lands."

"A Dreamer?" Takato could hear the capital letter easily.

The being on the Castle's threshold nodded simply. "One who dreams outside the boundaries of his own dreams. One who touches those of others, and reaches beyond the world as he knows it. The result is, often enough, that such a person finds his way here of his own will."

"And where is 'here,' if you don't mind my asking?" Takato inquired, feeling out of his depth.

"The Dream. Where all who slumber unknowingly make their way, and experience their dreams and nightmares." The figure inclined his head slightly. "And I am the lord of this realm."

That part made sense, at least, given the Castle. As for the rest…

"Wait. Are you saying that everybody's dreams meet in this world?"

"Inasmuch as this 'world' is a crossroads and a fount, yes."

Okay, then.

"Um…sorry, but I have so many questions." Takato started as he realized his omission. "Ah! I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners. My name is Takato Matsuki." He bowed at the waist in a kind of formal greeting, as he supposed was merited.

"A Tamer. Your story is known to me."

Another surprise, Takato reflected distantly as he reflexively straightened. "How…?"

The robed figure replied levelly, "What is a story but a dream made manifest in the waking world? My knowledge of such experiences is…somewhat extensive."

"…well. Ah, may I ask what your name is?"

"I have many names. You may call me Morpheus."

"Morpheus?" The gears of Takato's mind ground to a halt as his knowledge of mythology responded to the statement. "_Morpheus_, as in the…the god of dreams?"

"Perhaps."

The noncommittal reply did little to dampen the boy's surprise, but at the same time, many things were suddenly becoming clearer to him.

Morpheus' gaze had remained constant throughout, but now it flashed slightly as he tilted his head. "As I said, it is a rare occasion that a Dreamer arrives on my doorstep. If you wish to know more of this place, you may join me for some refreshment in the courtyard."

Well, that kind of invitation didn't come up every day, did it?

"Uh, sure. I mean, I'd be pleased to."

They walked through the great doors and entered a lofty hall lined with stained glass and massive stone columns. Striding easily down its length and then through adjoining rooms alongside his host, Takato gazed about in wonder. The Castle was as marvelous on the inside as on the outside, with peculiar instruments and metallic devices heaped up in one corner, curious ferns and miniature trees growing freely in another room, and a row of interior windows looking out beneath the surface of an ocean teeming with sea-life. Passing through an unending library which stretched out to the horizon, Takato began to think that he would never even begin to see all that this place promised.

Still, when at last the two emerged in an expansive courtyard filled with hedges, fountains, and marble statues, Takato's curiosity soon overtook his more superficial interest in their surroundings. Taking a seat at a spindly garden table, the boy's eyes only widened a little when tea and wagashi appeared out of thin air when Morpheus gestured subtly with a hand. Biting his lip lightly, the Tamer finally asked, "How is it that I'm here, exactly? I'm still fuzzy on all this."

Morpheus eyed him while pouring out tea into two small cups. "By some virtue of your birth, your nature, or perhaps your destiny…you see the world in such a way that you look beyond it. And behind the stage, you find the hopes and dreams of man—whether your own, those of others, or something that stands of its own accord."

"That…still sounds like a riddle. Sorry."

The boy's host waved it away. "Rarely does an explanation of any sort truly encompass such matters. Sufficed to say, your nighttime excursions are, as you would consider the use of the term, very real. Perhaps even more so than a waking stroll through the park. It is much the same with this place."

Takato sipped his tea pensively. "So…even though no one could see me in Tokyo or in the Digital World—" barring Renamon's uncanny awakening, but the boy didn't quite count that, "—I was well and truly there? I was walking in the crowds and seeing things that I couldn't have known otherwise?" He frowned slightly in thought. "Well, I guess I can believe that. I always tried to check on some things the next day to find out how much of what I was doing really happened. Like if I'd actually gotten a new street-name right, or if there'd really been a traffic accident near the school in the middle of the night…and those details always matched up."

"Indeed."

Takato shook his head slowly. "But—_how_?"

Morpheus leaned back in his chair, curling long, pale fingers around his steaming teacup. "If you refer to the means by which you make your escapades while your body remains asleep, it is a question of the nature of reality. No small matter," he added dryly.

The boy waited silently for his unusual host to continue.

"You of all people ought to grasp such a thing quickly," Morpheus continued after several moments. "You have experienced the transition of the flesh between the boundaries of worlds before, have you not? In some ways, it is a similar event with your mind and spirit—merely on a much higher level."

"Higher level?" Takato queried.

Morpheus surveyed the Tamer over the rim of his cup. "It is one thing to step between physical realms, whatever planes of reality they may rest upon. It is, however, quite another to transcend their borders and enter into the Dream as fully as you have. Whether in peering down into those worlds you know, or in climbing higher yet into my own lands, you enter a very different game."

Takato mulled this over for a time.

"I take it that this place is important, then?" he finally asked, curious of the answer.

Morpheus' eyes glinted. "There are many worlds. But they share the same Dream."

"Hm." Interesting. Coupling that with his host's earlier statements at the door made for some strange conclusions. "So, if I were anyone else, in any other world, and I were to fall asleep in my bed and start dreaming…I'd wind up here but not know it?"

"Essentially," Morpheus affirmed evenly. "There must be a place for men to dream, after all. This gathering place is in common, above and beyond the transient barriers that divide those smaller portions of existence. How deeply they are present here, however, is a different story." The pale man sipped his tea while Takato gnawed his lip in thought.

"And what does it mean that I'm here so strongly?" the boy finally asked.

"You see how this world goes. You see it feelingly," Morpheus replied enigmatically, with the air of quoting some authority.

"I don't follow."

Morpheus' lips may have quirked upwards slightly, but Takato couldn't tell for sure. "You see things as they truly are. Being a Dreamer, you are…susceptible to their nature. Your eyes do not see them, but your perception is correct without such aid. Far more so, in fact, when you are in the right way."

Takato turned this over in his mind critically. "So…when I walk around like a ghost, dreaming, I'm still interacting with the real world directly. But, even more so?" he added when Morpheus remained silent. At length the boy shook his head. "How can dreams like that be so real? Isn't it all in my head, with nerves and the subconscious and all that? Why does some uncontrollable part or act of my mind have more weight than my own daily experiences?"

That powerful and indefinable voice brushed against Takato's objections lightly, though its tone remained quite serious. "Is your sense of touch any different? You perceive something outside yourself by means of the body. How much more so is it with that part of man not limited by the flesh?" At the boy's dubious expression, Morpheus continued, "When sleep veils the distractions of the waking world, man _reaches_. Reaches out, and up. That you touch the Dream in those moments of liberating slumber is telling." He settled back in his chair. "As the lord of this place, I can tell you as much for certain."

The boy's host then considered the boy for a moment. "Certainly you know how your Digital World is profoundly affected by the thoughts and wishes of man. How do you think these things actually impress themselves upon that realm, but by the very potency of their own existence? A greater force has such an impact upon a lesser object."

"Maybe a digital reality is really impressionable," Takato quipped. "Anything else in the real world, people have to work at for it to happen. I can't wish good grades or a friendship into existence there."

"And your thoughts and wishes therefore have no impact upon your own world?" Morpheus responded on the spurs of the Tamer's answer. "Where does action spring from, if not from a fount of intangible intent and will?" As Takato clearly tried to apply this statement, his host explained, "Some places are more…rigid than others, but each plays by the same rules in the end. What difference is there between the metadata and cultural history of a Digimon species, and the human legends that inspired it? Merely memory and the recording of words—not a small act, by any means, but a simple one."

"Hm…"

A thought occurred to the Tamer, and he felt slightly unsettled as a chain of conclusions wound itself around their exchange on inspirations and impressions. Prolonging the pause as long as he could while considering the germ of an idea, he at last put forward his question.

"Does the Dream arise from the minds of men, or are men's thoughts and dreams drawn out of the Dream?" He looked at the tall, robed figure before him with a measure of disquiet. Part of him wasn't sure he was ready for what his query might suggest or reveal. "I mean…I guess you know the answer, right?"

Morpheus' eyes burned with cool starlight, but he said nothing.

With some degree of thankfulness for that, Takato then sat quietly for some minutes, noting that his host was content to do so as well while sipping tea. In the contemplative silence, the boy pondered the conversation up to this point.

Dreams and reality, perception and thought, inspiration and existence? What an odd day this was…

And yet. Aside from wandering among such vast and abstract considerations—certainly an enjoyable and surprisingly fulfilling journey, even if it didn't really make sense to him—Takato felt as though he were standing on the edge of an epiphany. Of gaining some insight not merely in discussion, but in seeing some evidence of these thoughts being worthy of his confusion.

Of finding that his exploration of this strange world _meant_ something important.

His fingers tingled tantalizingly, as though he had been placed before a potter's wheel and offered a lump of wet and formless clay. Memories of old drawings and travels in another world whirled around in his head, teasing him with…

…what, exactly?

Seeing the rising question in the boy's eyes, Morpheus raised a brow ever so slightly. At this prompt, Takato asked slowly, "If I take a lot of this at face value…then what does it mean that I'm able to stand here right now?" _Why does it matter? And why am I trembling?_

Morpheus regarded the Tamer with mild interest, as though judging the curiosity of a student. "What do you suspect?"

Takato shook his head slowly. "I…if I'm so aware of the Dream, and in control of myself while I'm here…" He took another sip of tea, buying himself the appearance of time to think and provide a thoughtful answer. "I suppose…well…"

He started suddenly. "Wait a second. Everyone comes here, even if they're not aware of it, right?"

"Whether they lack such an understanding at the time or upon waking, yes," Morpheus nodded.

"Then couldn't I…find them here somewhere? Even if they're…'adrift,' I'm not so much," Takato said aloud, half to himself. "Like we're swimmers in the ocean, except I know where the shore is, and how far out to sea I am…while the others are swimming blind?"

"An adequate analogy," his host confirmed again, eyes glinting in some small measure of, perhaps, amusement. Takato thought the look appropriate to watching a kitten making its first fumbling steps before comically falling over.

Ignoring this comparison for the sake of his own dignity, the boy continued, "And if everyone has their dreams in the Dream…then would I be able to see those?" He cringed at the prospect. Aside from the fact that such a thing would surely range from awkward to outright _scarring_, the ethical considerations were nearly glaring at him.

"And influence them, to some extent," Morpheus added, and those ethics squeaked in dismay. The shade of a smirk might have been lurking on his host's lips, though Takato wasn't sure he wanted to know for sure. "One who recognizes and understands a thing is the one best able to change it or its circumstances."

"I see," Takato deadpanned, but he shifted nervously at this knowledge.

Morpheus, however, still seemed to be waiting. Under his intense starlit gaze, Takato hemmed and hawed for a few more moments.

"So…erm…then…" At last, giving up on pretenses, the Tamer exclaimed, "You know, I don't think that I could bring myself to do that." Or push such a train of conclusions further…

Morpheus shrugged. "Did I give you the impression that you ought to do so? The ability does not imply the right. Were you extended an invitation, however, things might be different."

Takato blinked, taken aback. He couldn't quite imagine that he understood what his host was suggesting, or that he wanted to think about it at that moment.

But still, something else was niggling at him.

"And what else?" he prompted. "I mean, meddling in someone else's dreams can't…there ought to be something bigger, or…" He tapped his foot impatiently, trying to find the words.

Morpheus was silent, merely sipping his tea slowly.

At this image—the great, robed figure sitting there in his chair in the garden in the impossible castle in the unbelievable dreamscape—Takato paused.

"…oh…"

Morpheus had caused their tea and snacks (the latter still untouched) to appear with the slightest gesture. With a thought.

In a world of dreams.

Takato looked into his own half-full cup, at the light-colored drink within. With a thoughtful frown, he peered closely at the liquid, but held in his mind instead the image of a dark soda.

He must have blinked, because in the next instant his cup brimmed with cola.

Tasting it hesitantly (and rather astonished at the rich and full flavor—nearly ideal—that he found), Takato looked up at Morpheus for an explanation.

His host raised a brow. "You are a Dreamer," he stated simply.

Takato set his cup down carefully. "I just…I thought about it being soda instead…"

"You _dreamt_ it," Morpheus corrected.

"Because I'm in the Dream," the boy mused.

Shaking his head, Morpheus leaned forward and looked directly into Takato's eyes.

"Because you are a Dreamer."

It clicked.

Takato stood without thinking, his mind whirling.

Human dreams had given Digimon their form and shape, their attributes and history. Their very _world_ was a melting pot of hopes and fears, wishes and nightmares—drawing data into a framework of substance and new life.

His own fervent, childhood aspirations had inspired Guilmon's creation.

What then was this creative act sitting in front of him, fizzing in his tea cup?

Takato vaguely noticed that Morpheus was now standing as well, half-turned and surveying the gardens.

"We stand behind the stage of the world," the lord of the realm said softly, gazing down at a crimson blossom with those eyes burning like cold stars. "Who performs upon it? The players. Who sets it?"

"…the crew?" Takato asked quietly in wonder, his face beginning to shine with lucidity.

Morpheus nodded. "Such is granted to some. To paint the backdrop, to place the props and mend the costumes. To walk behind the curtains."

He turned back to the Tamer, dark robes billowing in a sudden breeze. Morpheus seemed now to tower against the sky in the boy's vision, his eyes flashing brightly.

"To dream the Dream."

The majestic figure's gaze remained mild, but it became also keen and curious as a razor.

"What will _you_ do, little Dreamer?" Morpheus mused.

As revelation dawned upon Takato—as possibilities flooded his mind, blinding his sight with their brilliance and overwhelming his senses with the joy he had glimpsed in his clumsy attempts at creative art—the world faded into white light.

Last of all faded Morpheus, surveying the boy with a knowing eye before leaving him standing alone in a white field of nothingness.

"You still have much you may learn," came his ageless voice from the bright void, "but all things have their beginning."

Takato could only nod, his eyes glinting in wonder.

"…and I know where to start."

XxXxX

A/N: One short chapter left. It's been a while in coming, eh?


	3. Excitare

Disclaimer: I don't own Digimon or any other form of published literature.

XxXxX

Your head spins uncontrollably as you walk in the whiteness, caught up in eddies of wild exultation and disbelieving expectation. It's hard to think straight, under the weight of the possibilities running around you…and of the curious relief flooding your mind.

It's strange. The odd little things never really stayed with you—the old irresistible urges from childhood and beyond to _pretend-draw-make_, the absurdity of impossible knowledge gained in the dead of night. You just accepted these kinds of events and bits of your personality without much question, and went about your life. When your parents shook their heads in bewilderment at how you threw yourself into any number of franchises dealing in fantastic adventures and worlds, you smiled and agreed that you were a young boy with your head in the clouds. When you began your nighttime escapades, you chalked it up to some strange result of your previous adventures.

But to find something _more _beneath that…some natural affinity, some knack, some kind of calling—it's like realizing that there's a vital piece of you slowly waking up and blinking in the dawning light.

Because that's what it is, now that it's been put into words. A sense or faculty that you were never consciously aware of, but were always flexing gently on some level. And now it's roaring to be heard, to _make its mark on the world_.

How ironic. This awakening pulls you further and deeper and higher into your dreams…

Well. Time for that mad imagination to be put to its purpose.

The whiteness isn't quite suitable to what you have in mind, so you close your eyes and envision the world as it ought to be, as you suppose it—the same journey of intent that took you to see your slumbering friends earlier this night. So now you're standing in that space between worlds, where directions are meaningless and symbols waft through the air like feathers and dust. You were here before, back in the days of the Devas and your quest to rescue a friend from their clutches.

Hm. It feels so natural here now.

It's a whim to place the Digital World on your left and your world on the right. It's a fancy to imagine the park in Shinjuku as a point of crimson light on that side. It's a conceit to choose a point just outside that digital grotto and make it blaze in golden hue.

It's an act of amazing simplicity, in the end, to take hold of both points and _pull_.

You're not drawing them together—you're spinning out threads of white light and tying them together into one, meeting in the center of space before you. The growing cord leaps and snaps and sizzles underneath your hands, but it's all about intent, and you calm it with a dream of peace and contentment.

When the light settles into place like a rigid beam—tying the worlds together with a girder sterner than steel and more brilliant than diamonds in the sun—you draw back your hand and pause.

This is a true moment in time. A beginning, and an ending. What came before is being fulfilled

—_friendship, sacrifice, longing—_

and as for what will come…

With a tight smile, you snap your hand to the side.

The shining white beam splits into a rainbow of swirling color and sound. It's like song distilled through a prism and cast into space, ringing out the music of the spheres. You didn't actually expect that (it's too glorious to believe that such a spectacle could come from your own head anyway), but it's a wonderful surprise.

Soaking it all in, it's hard to turn back to your original design, but it comes in time.

The great shimmering cord must be more than it yet is, so you reach out and work it like clay. A touch of your dreaming mind hollows and expands the connection into a tunnel of light mirthfully playing across the spectrum. The music changes and the notes leap about, leaving you awash in a sensation of delight and eagerness.

Only one thing left to do now, it seems.

You place your hands upon the Bridge between worlds—called up out of your dreams, out of the _Dream_—and unlock the Gates on either side.

You realize it's finished when a rush of pure _knowing_ takes hold of your mind. Like recognizing yourself in a mirror, the intuition leaves you with only one conclusion.

It's time to go home.

Together.

Releasing your hold on lucidity—it's all about intent, even in the waking—there's a span of disorientation before crystal-clear recollection. Then you see the sunlight streaming through your bedroom window, and you nod in affirmation. Because, whatever you've just done, no matter what fantastic thing you've discovered…_this_ has to be done in the flesh.

Flying from your room and down the stairs, you don't stop to change out of your pajamas. But then, that doesn't matter, since you're suddenly wearing your favorite outfit anyway.

Cellphone in hand, you're making calls as you run. Sleepy and disbelieving voices answer in stutters and questions, but you hang up and dial again as soon as you get the message across. Time for explanations (well…maybe) later. For now, there's only the dwindling distance to the park.

The grass glistens with dew, and the droplets refract the light in a hundred tiny rainbows scattered across the ground. They're like little affirmations, small reprises of the theme sounding between the worlds, and you grin widely.

Then you see that blessed old concrete hut.

And there's a pair of gleaming golden eyes inside, now peering out in puzzlement. Then the bemusement changes to joy as your laughter rings out in the crisp morning air.

xxxxx

_What if you slept  
And what if,  
In your sleep  
You dreamed?  
And what if,  
In your dream,  
You went to Heaven  
And there plucked  
A strange and  
Beautiful flower?  
And what if,  
When you awoke,  
You had the flower  
In your hand?  
Ah, what then?_  
—_Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

XxXxX:

A/N: There we are. I was interested to see what effect the change in the narrator's voice would have in each of the chapters, since it's a unified whole. A peculiar result, I think, but interesting. In any case, regarding the content, I'd hoped to touch on one of those little threads that the show gave us, but didn't flesh out in full. Not a lot to say here otherwise, really, other than that I hope you enjoyed this little piece.


End file.
